(sonnet # CCCLXXI)
It's rather quite a game to me, this art
Called poetry, because the sonnet form
Demands much more than simple rhymes; transforms
The usual thoughtful means wherein the heart
Expresses scenes, moods, myr'ad joys, griefs; part
And parcel pouring out itself: each storm,
Dear scheme, vain dream life knows; and nigh reforms
In its strict sphere, whilst glory, grace imparts.
A dulcet chase ensues as it refines
Within its "scanty plot," and half subdues
Each wilderness of thought. While it confines,
It hones to heights ne'er seen elsewise; imbues
Each muse with eloquence as its designs
Precision lend. A merry game. It woos.
10Dec11
D38b
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 10th, 2011 22:54
- Comment from author about the poem: A fellow poetess' poem regarding poetry inspired this, frankly. Her assessment of it being a crutch in difficulty teased me as I washed dinner dishes and tried to determine rather what poetry is to me. On one hand I might agree, but that's for another sonnet. On the other, I often say very seriously, it is a game. [Note: the term "muse" in L13 means thought.]
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 18
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